


To longevity

by QueenLapinova



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Gen, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-03
Updated: 2013-11-03
Packaged: 2017-12-31 08:43:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1029655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenLapinova/pseuds/QueenLapinova
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal Chau and Mako Mori living side by side as vampires in the Pacific Rim universe where vampires are many mouthed monsters and kaiju blood lets them go out in the sun. </p><p>"Raleigh's eyes looked past her after they drifted; he spoke through her, to the blur of her face in the periphery of his vision to say he saw nothing. That the nothing wasn’t what terrified him as much as it was the nothing was alive; it churned and seethed and it was hungry. He had journeyed to the precipice of a screaming pit, and felt engulfing him like fog the chilled breath of the devil."</p>
            </blockquote>





	To longevity

Fifteen years for the realization to sink in; life is one long death: the predeath; and the slowest death imaginable. Ignorant premortem of how hours collected into days, weeks, years he scripted his humanity postmortem as means for survival. Abiding by laws the human constraints by which he was bound kept him from submitting to the will of the blood pissed monster hidden in the two hundred pounds of flesh his soul was tethered to for eternity. And, sometimes, he wondered if it would be easier to become that seething evil buried deep in his curdled blood; to put flesh to his lips and swallow cities in his mouth; to separate from the plague of human guilt and restriction, to plunge headlong into freewill god given in life at last, at last.

Two hundred and six bones in Hannibal’s body and none of them were merciful. Mako clung to human disposition, wound herself tight in lively reservation; a shield against what evil tender he had collected on the edges of his soul like moss from years of feeding and fear. It was not in her nature to kill, but she knew too quick the pangs of survival and it chewed at her with an intimacy. Dreams as black red as the slow sticky drip from the jaeger technician she hung in her closet, blood draining red pearls into a yellow pail. Heavy handed the Marshall knocks hard on her door. She could not sleep through the day. 

Human laws: a jaeger pilot could not sleep through the Christian white of the sun. Human laws: the corpse in the closet made her a criminal. 

Mako Mori severed from the PPDC a week after Gipsy Danger’s conn pod bloomed with the scent of Raleigh’s blood flowing from his nose over the cleft of his cupid’s bow as the catalyst to their severed neural connection. Brain rendered to an organ frozen in the pink blush of time and stolen blood, the connection did not and would not hold to the pathways of her dead parts.

Raleigh’s eyes looked past her after they drifted; he spoke through her, to the blur of her face in the periphery of his vision to say he saw nothing. That the nothing wasn’t what terrified him as much as it was the nothing was alive; it churned and seethed and it was hungry. He had journeyed to the precipice of a screaming pit, and felt engulfing him like fog the chilled breath of the devil.

She could not kill again. In her bones the marrow of mercy housed itself with dangerous hunger; she sought Hannibal following an instinct. 1 am: in the disarming silence of the Shatterdome, his footfall tapping metallic and golden marked him as the only man roaming through riveted halls to the titanic feet of the jaeger when she fell from scaffolding. The world held its breath; Mako screamed, her arms reaching at grotesque angles. Ascending, her violent silhouette was of a screaming angel destined for darker pursuits, landing in a deep red pool of jutting bones and spattered veinwork. The life shudders from her like the smoke of a burning wreck and her eyes were as wide as the split pulp of her skull. He hauled her upward, smoke dissipating by the stop of his blood bitten wrist being pressed against the teeth of her shattered mouth. Over her, the sight of Hannibal Chau was a preternatural blur, a trick of the eyes. Through taut lips he hums a tune to distract himself from the hands that gripped the skin of his wrist, from the pink mouth gorging itself on the fount of his artery. Heavy of eye, for the blood Mako does not notice he has many, many teeth and many, many mouths. She awoke in rags.

At all stops of the hands: hour and minute; she could feel him in her head as a persistent but distant glow of ember red in that churning pit of consciousness Raleigh had tread the edge of. Well oiled, organic, closer than drifting it did not require machinery to keep planted the roots of connection. She kept to her own thoughts.

His varietal hungers: lusts of flesh, for the flesh, his hollow pursuits of wealth wrapped an angry core; her thoughts he sought when the anger soaked him: her calm, her measured humanity. She knew through this unholy connection he felt grief in every pore; that their solution to the plague of vampirism came when he, suicidal, unable to see the sun setting on time’s horizon, opened his throat on a gallon of kaiju blood and dared the sun to gore him on its rays. Reptile plated shoes caught on the sun as he walked into Hong Kong summer heat an unscathed man. For this fluke he found sick humor and purported himself a man of science: a miracle maker. 

He found a solution and hid the scar of his maker under the sunglasses he wore at all hours for light sensitivity. She had a third eye to his soul. They could not pilot a jaeger, but they could balance. 

The gut shipments, jars of organs suspended in ammonia, coolers containing human and kaiju remains; the gory nature of his business serviced comfortable survival. Sucking wet bags of B positive through her jagged jaw Mako took took on, as he did, the inhuman guise of a monster. As long as business stayed afloat, she would never have to crush in the merciful bones of her fist the throats of friends and prey. Type A, B, O, positive, negative, came through on business purpose without question. They would lock the door and shed wet mantles of human skin to become leeching toothed mouths and dark wet eyes, creatures with tongues that licked long into the plastic medical blood bags for scraps. Visceral revulsion in their twisted appearances, in the effluvia of blood in a dead mouth, was kept at bay in that they shared the same sickness.

She knew he feared the end of the world, the closing of the breach: when the kaiju parts would stop. Not for greed, for the lack of pastures grassed with money, but for the loss of the sun without the blood salve of alien monsters. Mako’s the sickly lace pale reserved for corpses. At the table of a cafe in high afternoon her small tongue licks the pad of her forefinger and turns the page to a book. Under the dark of a sunhat and thick sunglasses she hadn’t had enough time for the fear to cross her mind. Hannibal’s waiting in the lab with hired scientists; synthesizing alien blood out of fear.


End file.
